


you dropped in at the right (wrong) time

by Sorbus



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-12-09 09:37:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20992673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sorbus/pseuds/Sorbus
Summary: “Do not be afraid; our fateCannot be taken from us; it is a gift.”― Dante's InfernoWherein everyone has a soulmate perfect for them, and choice is a power in of itself.





	you dropped in at the right (wrong) time

Hannibal was pushing fifty. He's been an established surgeon, a well-known psychiatrist, and was now famous for his kills as the Chesapeake Ripper. He was engaged in a long, arduous relationship with Will Graham, that spanned entire continents. They hadn't been lovers, not sleeping together or dating in the traditional sense. Nobody had said 'I love you', although Hannibal was embarrassed to admit the deep, jagged scar he had left on dear Will's abdomen could equate to something akin to 'I loved you'. Their relationship was in fact transcendental.

Beyond convention. Beyond mere reason or logic. His obsession with Will Graham had led Hannibal to abandon his long-held preservation instincts and as a result he had been exposed - forced to flee and hide out in the city of his youth. And all the old European architecture, all the good food, and pleasant company of Bedelia couldn't fail to be subpar in comparison to the few weeks he had spent believing his clever Will had truly wanted to join him in the darkness.

It was under these circumstances that Hannibal had decided to let loose. He was dissatisfied, and above all Hannibal was a creature of hedonism. What he wanted, he would pursue, and what he wanted right then was his mongoose.

Dear Will had strung him along like a fish on a hook. Hannibal too would lure him in - leave bodies strewn over Europe like the most delicious enticement that would have his Will come running. As much as he tried to deny it, Will had always been drawn to murder.

So early one Parisian morning, Hannibal was walking down one of the streets in one of the less central zones. He was on the hunt.

This was another thing Will had changed in him – taken from him. After the recklessness of his youth and his close call with the good Italian detective, Hannibal had forged himself into something better. He was superior to the average murderer, less base, he was not at the mercy of his instincts or desires. They served him instead, and through careful choice and preparation, Hannibal elevated both himself and the pigs he called prey.

Yet here he was again, stalking throughout the streets like some common thug – no particular target in mind, no particular vision. All he desired was a convenient vessel to enact upon his violence. But oh, _there_ – something unexpected. The smell of blood bloomed in his nose, delicate and fine, and Hannibal raised his head like a hound smelling prey. It seemed someone else in the area had beaten him to the chase.

He rounded a corner and peered into a dinghy alleyway to find a most exquisite sight. A young man - hardly young by societal standards but maybe a few decades younger than Hannibal himself had seemingly cornered some hapless fool and gutted him. The scene was picturesque: the dim lighting – a dark Parisian alleyway. Blood sprayed artfully across the brick wall – astounding beginner’s luck to have avoided an ugly mess. And a beginner he was – this unnamed man. The grip on his knife was odd – they showed an experience with knives themselves but not with their use as a murder tool. Furthermore, he wasn’t as nearly as situationally aware as he should be – even in the dim light Hannibal could see the fine tremors in this murderer’s hand. There was a wide, ecstatic grin on his face, and his eyes were rivetted upon the slowly cooling corpse that lay at him feet.

Hannibal's eyes dilated. His mind was firing neurons at a rapid pace, and his heartbeat increased. His skin tingled with emotion he only usually felt in the rush of a kill. He felt the curious urge to kiss this bloody killer, half hidden in shadow as he was.

Although the experience associated with first laying one's eyes on their soulmate had been described to Hannibal any number of times, he was still caught off guard. What were the chances?

Hannibal could see his counterpart – his other half – look up and get caught in the same well of longing. Seeing one's soulmate would trigger the urge to tie their metaphysical incarnations together through the act of a kiss. Philosophers had long debated why this was so, why a bond didn't immediately form the moment the two caught sight of each other. Many had concluded a kiss, even the most chaste, was an act where one would breathe part of their soul into the other and receive part of their soul in return.

This would be the meeting of monsters. Hannibal could see it already. Their darkness multiplied, his experience a compass to guide both him and his soulmate into a new era of murder. They'd never get caught alive, and their names would go down in history. Decades from now books would be written on the most unholy union ever to be decreed by fate.

His soulmate – his _soulmate_ – came forward. Hannibal, mindless of the blood upon the other man raised his hands to cradle the man’s face affectionately. It was such a lovely vision.

Too bad it would never come to pass.

Within seconds Hannibal's grip tightened like steel, and the twist of his arms was accompanied with the sharp snap of his soulmate's neck breaking. Almost immediately he could feel the connection falter, like a punch to the gut, as it was cut off abruptly. He staggered. Hannibal took a moment to readjust.

"My apologies," he murmured to the warm corpse. No longer his soulmate, no longer full of possibility. "I'm afraid I am quite dedicated to another."

Hannibal eyed meat in front of his for a moment, before hastily decided he would touch none of it. Fate could not control him, could not make for him someone more meaningful than he wanted them to be. This person would not be elevated, would not be consumed to become one with Hannibal in any manner. Hannibal would deny fate even this. His nameless would-be soulmate shall be left to rot.

If destiny deigned to interfere with his design, it too may rot. Hannibal would have Will Graham no matter the forces in his way.

Years later, Will Graham was pushing fifty. He had a long, arduous life of poverty, struggle, and murder. On his cheek, under his beard, a gnarled scar lay, matched by the neater scars around his forehead and on his lower abdomen. He had been on the run for a while now, the path of his and his husband's murderous tendencies spanning continents.

They were in a small town in Switzerland. Not overly rural but the town generally lacked CCTV, which was a concern Will had to take into account these days. There was a lot Will had to take into account these days that a few years past wouldn’t have crossed his mind. But then again, that was the price for eloping with a prolific serial killer of the calibre of the Chesapeake Ripper.

His becoming had been a long time coming, if Will was honest with himself. Generally these days he was – the time for denial was past. It hadn’t come easily, no. His scars ached in the cold, as if he needed the constant reminder of their existence. Surely Hannibal had taken at least five years off Will’s lifespan from his ridiculous shenanigans alone, and some days Will could feel the weight of his actions – both of their combined – bearing down upon him. One day, he was certain, they’d catch up with him.

But not right then. Right then they could walk down the street, hand in hand, after a nice night out. In the last few months they’d killed three people in celebration of their three year anniversary. They’d been together for longer, but Will had stubbornly held out on marriage for a long while. God knows what they’d do when they’d been together for ten, fifteen, twenty years. If they lasted that long.

It was dusk – the sun was setting but a few dying rays of sunlight painted the village a brilliant orange. Few people were about – the tourist season was many months away still – but at least one or two people would pass every few minutes. Hannibal and Will were staying a little further out of town for the privacy, but he didn’t really mind the walk. At their age it was probably best to keep as fit as possible, especially if they wanted to keep on top of their game when out on the hunt.

It was some random accident, but they were turning a corner and Will hadn’t been looking where he was going. God forgive him for being sappy, but he had been looking at Hannibal, so the lone woman who had bumped into him startled him into stumbling back. He caught her – and himself – from falling to the ground, and looked up to say something, he didn’t know and–

Oh.

_Oh._

It was a point never mentioned, but the evidence left behind had made it clear that Hannibal murdered his soulmate during the first meeting. Of course Hannibal’s soulmate had also just murdered someone else and the crime scene had been a bit of a shitshow, from what Will had heard. But the blood reports had come up with a clear story: right when the body had pushed them the hardest to consummate their bond, Hannibal’s soulmate’s neck had been snapped.

Will had never said, and Hannibal had never asked – though he probably had guessed, the bastard – but it had been that report which had pushed Will into pursuing Hannibal more seriously across Europe.

God he’d been so ready to grab Hannibal, put him away, and leave it all behind. He’d yearned so badly for a nice, normal life. A wife, maybe even a kid. He’d wanted to be a good man, tried his hardest. Even though he’d accepted himself as he was now, revelled in who he had become under the somewhat heavy hand of Hannibal Lecter, some part of Will mourned the lost opportunity of who he could have been.

And here was his soulmate. A decade too late at the least, with pretty brown hair, and beautiful laugh lines, and lips he would very, very much like to kiss. This was it. His last tie to a normal life.

His focused blurred, and later Will wouldn’t be able to remember it clearly – the details and sequence of events blurred with adrenaline. He did hear Hannibal say something – his name, maybe – and his soulmate gasped, eyes going wide. They too were pretty – a deep, welcoming brown. Will could get lost in them.

He cradled her face, bringing them both close together to they were nose-to-nose, breath mingling and so, so close to becoming one.

And within him surged a fiery anger. How dare she – how _dare_ she come now, after all this time. Where had she been when he needed her most, when he was still so desperately clinging to normality by the tips of his fingernails? Why here, why now? How _dare_ she try to ruin this with her perfect face, perfect smell – perfect soul that would compliment his oh so well?

It was overwhelming, the desire to complete his soul – to feel what many others had felt: the contentment of sharing something so intimate with another person. It could overcome him, really.

Will took a deep breath, tightened his hands so they cradled her face so nicely, leaned ever-so-slightly forward so he could gaze into her eyes–

And snapped.

Will took another deep shuddering breath and looked over at Hannibal who looked back, eyes glistening with tears, and face overcome with joyous rapture.

“Come on,” Will said, ignoring the body below and holding his hand out to Hannibal. “It's getting dark.”


End file.
